


Cherchez la Femme

by Isis



Category: due South
Genre: Comedy of Errors, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having your neighbor be a hot twenty-something blonde with a French accent would have been a plus, Ray supposed, if it wasn't for the new thing he and Fraser had going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherchez la Femme

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2007 due South Seekrit Santa exchange, for Bluebrocade.

Ray backed into the apartment and moved slowly to the left until the couch was lined up in the middle of the doorway and Fraser's back was against the hallway wall. "Okay, it'll clear. Where do you want it?" 

"Against the far wall, I think," said Fraser, and slowly they maneuvered the heavy piece of furniture into the apartment. Into Fraser's new apartment. 

Ray had been relieved when Fraser had made the decision to return to Chicago. Surprised, yeah, but relieved, because he'd been thinking a lot about what they'd do when the big adventure was over. Trying to figure if he could make it up there, up in Canada; what kind of work he might be able to get, whether he could hack the winters (which, the cold and snow didn't worry him half as much as the zero hours of sunlight part, because, hello, he lived in _Chicago_ , he was used to cold and snow), and how he'd break it to his folks who had, after all, moved to freaking _Skokie_ just to be closer to him. 

Because Fraser—well, he loved it up there, anybody could see that. It was his home. So when they had pretty much given up on the Hand of Franklin, Ray was thinking about what he could do in Canada. And then Fraser said that he was looking forward to being back in Chicago. 

Ray had looked up at him sharply, across the pizza they were sharing. (Which was a real treat after months of freeze-dried stew, but not anything as good as what they could get in Chicago. Which is how the whole conversation got started in the first place.) "You can have your pick of postings now, that's what Thatcher said." 

"I know. I'm picking Chicago." Fraser's eyes on him were steady, and Ray could read the message as clear as if he'd said it out loud. Fraser was picking Chicago because Ray was in Chicago, or would be again, anyway. Because sometime in the past couple of months they'd gone from being buddies to being more-than-buddies, and that was why Ray had been thinking about moving to Canada, and that was why Fraser was going back to Chicago. 

"So you want to move into my place?" Ray had asked after a while, and maybe Fraser had heard the hesitation in his voice, because he shook his head. 

"If it's all right with you, I think I'd rather live on my own for a while. Well, with Diefenbaker, of course." 

"No, I get that. Your own place, that's good." Not that sharing a tent hadn't had its advantages. But when you lived on your own you made your own rules, and that had its advantages, too. Ray had gotten lazy, maybe, after Stella and he had split. The toilet seat got left up, and sometimes the dishes piled up in the sink for days; Fraser probably wouldn't complain about the toilet seat, but Ray would bet he wouldn't be too happy about the dishes. 

And if they were going to work together (which Fraser had assured him he absolutely wanted to do, because wasn't that the whole point of the partnership speech he had made when they were sitting around the campfire?) and do, well, other things together, it made sense that they at least each have somewhere they could get away from each other. Being together 24/7 would probably kill their partnership (or more-than-partnership) quicker than the Goat could accelerate zero-to-sixty. Because sure, he liked Fraser—he liked Fraser a _whole lot_ —but sometimes Fraser drove him nuts. 

So Fraser had gone looking for an apartment, and Ray had gone with him to make sure that he didn't end up in a bad neighborhood like that slum on West Racine where he used to live (until his building had been burned down on their very first day together), and that it was close to Ray's apartment (by Ray's definition of close, not Fraser's 96-block radius), and that there was a place nearby where he could park the GTO and not have to worry about coming back three hours later to find his wheels missing. 

The one they settled on—the one Ray was helping Fraser move into—was pretty good. The big, important thing was that the landlord allowed dogs (okay, probably not wolves, but Fraser had convinced Dief to not complain too loudly). It was on the second floor, which meant not too many stairs (which, thank God, considering that Fraser seemed to be morally opposed to elevators). The bedroom was large enough for the queen-size bed Ray had insisted Fraser get, with a big window that looked out on a back alley. If you stood right there and looked out and up, you could see the sky. The kitchen was kind of small, but it was sunny, painted in yellow and white, and the appliances looked almost new. And the neighbors— 

"'Allo! You are my new neighbor, yes?" 

—well, having your neighbor be a hot twenty-something blonde with a French accent would have been a plus, Ray supposed, if it wasn't for the new thing he and Fraser had going. Which meant no hot blondes for either of them (which, totally not a problem, as far as Ray was concerned). Except that Fraser had responded in French, and he and the hot blonde were now sitting on the newly-positioned (second-hand, brown plaid, long enough to make out on) couch and jabbering away at each other in what Ray couldn't help but think of, pissily, as Secret Canadian Code. 

"Frase," he finally said, when the jabbering had slowed down a little. 

"I'm terribly sorry," said Fraser. "Ray, this is Chantal. She and her roommate are from Montreal." He turned back to Chantal, gave her a hundred-watt smile that probably had her swooning from her sleek blonde ponytail down to her high-heeled sandals. "I must say, it's wonderful to have other Canadians living just down the hall." 

"Yeah, wonderful." _Two_ hot twenty-something blondes. Great. 

"You are also living here?" 

And for a moment, he really wanted to say yes, because someone had to keep Fraser out of trouble. Not that he didn't trust him. Of course he did; that was what being partners was all about, right? Fraser was probably only being super-friendly to Chantal because she was Canadian, which reminded him of home. The home he had left to come to Ray's home, and so if talking with Chantal in Canadian was what it took to keep him happy in Chicago, that was all right with Ray. 

"Nah," he said, shrugging. "Just helping Fraser move in." 

Maybe he'd given the last two words a bit of extra oomph, because Chantal leapt gracefully from the couch. "Oh! Forgive me, you are busy." She turned back to Fraser. "But we are in number twelve. You must come visit." 

"Of course," said Fraser, and that was that, Chantal went back down the hall. Thank God. "Shall we get the rest, Ray?" 

Two more trips and they had everything out of the borrowed truck, and then Ray moved it out of the loading zone and came back upstairs to find Fraser unpacking his plain white dishes from their boxes and putting them in the kitchen cabinets. 

"All moved in?" 

"Getting there," said Fraser. "I have to admit that I'm enjoying the prospect of not living at the Consulate." 

"Yeah, I bet. Well, you got it all under control, so I guess I'll head on home." 

Fraser pulled another plate from the box, then turned to him. "If you must. But I was hoping you'd help me celebrate." 

Take that, Chantal. Ray grinned and stepped close to Fraser, real close, right up against him. He could feel the heat from Fraser's body through both of their shirts. Gently he took the plate from Fraser's hand and placed it on the counter. "Sounds good to me. What do you say we break in that new bed of yours?" 

* * *

Things were working out pretty well, Ray thought. Welsh had offered him a regular detective gig, under his own name now that Vecchio's undercover deal was over, and apparently he just took Fraser's presence for granted, part of a package, buy one get one free. (Which was fine with Ray, because they had the duet thing down, now, and breaking in another partner was the last thing he wanted to do.) 

They worked together two, maybe three days a week, and they slept together three or four nights a week, sometimes at his place, sometimes at Fraser's. It was a discreet kind of sleeping together; they didn't do anything stupid like walk around holding hands (which, sometimes Ray kind of wished they could) or even talking much about their plans for the evening in front of anyone else. Ray might say, "You coming over for the game?" and Fraser would say yes, and that could have been just buddies, if anyone had overheard. 

But of course Ray's neighbors got used to seeing Fraser around, and Fraser's neighbors recognized Ray, too. And maybe some of them might have seen Ray coming up the stairs one evening, and then heading out the next morning, but that was okay; it wasn't like they'd get the word back to the precinct or anything, or to the Consulate for that matter. 

Because cops were cops, and even though they were supposed to serve and protect no matter what, it wasn't like he could put a picture of Fraser on his desk. The city had recently announced that gay people could register as partners and abracadabra, it would be just like they were married, at least for some things. They could get on each other's health insurance, stuff like that, but Ray wasn't having any. The department might be progressive enough to offer it (or more likely, someone had threatened to sue), but that didn't mean that there wouldn't be talk if you took them up on the offer. 

Still, though, the world thought they were just buddies, which meant that the world thought Fraser was still available. (Maybe the world thought Ray was available, too, but he didn't get hit on nearly as much as Fraser did.) Frannie had started making noises about her biological clock, which as far as Ray was concerned would have been okay if she hadn't been looking intently at Fraser from under her eyelashes while she said it. (She could say what she liked, but Ray didn't think Frannie had what it took for immaculate conception.) Constable Hsu, who'd replaced Turnbull at the Consulate, always greeted Fraser with what Ray thought was a suspicious amount of enthusiasm. And Chantal seemed to drop by Fraser's apartment an awful lot. 

And that was just while Ray was there. They'd be hanging out, just talking and having a beer (well, Ray would be having a beer; Fraser would be drinking bark tea, or ginger ale, or something weird like that) and Chantal would knock on the door. Fraser would open it and she'd come in, talking French at approximately one mile per minute (or maybe since it was Canadian it was in kilometers, but Ray couldn't convert in his head the way Fraser did). Dief would run up to her and she'd stoop to pet him, cooing something in French, and then Fraser would disappear into the kitchen and come back with a cup of sugar, or a couple of eggs, or the morning's newspaper, or whatever she'd come to mooch off him _this_ time. 

He trusted Fraser. Of course he trusted Fraser. It was stupid to think that maybe the cups of sugar were a cover, that when he wasn't there Chantal and Fraser went back into the bedroom and…no, of course they didn't. It was annoying to watch Dief greet Chantal like a long-lost buddy, yipping at her and wagging his tail. (Just because Ray didn't like the wolf making intimate with his ear, or any other body parts, didn't mean he didn't like the wolf. Dief was supposed to be _his_ buddy, damn it.) It was ridiculous to think that Chantal and Fraser were anything other than friends. 

Friends who lived conveniently down the hall from each other, and spoke the same language (which Ray couldn't understand one word of). But friends, right? Just friends. 

It wasn't like Chantal didn't want to be friends with Ray, too, or at least she acted that way in front of him. She always cocked her head and smiled at him when she came into Fraser's apartment, always said, "'Allo, Ray, how are you?" as she stroked and petted Dief. 

And early one morning he left Fraser's place and was walking to where he'd parked the GTO, a block away. From behind him he heard the familiar call: "'Allo, Ray!" When he turned, there was Chantal and another woman (who had chin-length dark hair; Ray revised his "two hot blondes" theory, remembering with dismay that Victoria had been a brunette, too) jogging down the sidewalk. Tiny shorts, skin-tight tops cropped to show off flat stomachs, little white running shoes. They both waved as they passed him, and he caught a hint of their scent. 

They smelled like girls who'd just gotten up in the morning, who'd headed out for a run before even taking a shower. He wanted to turn right around and go back upstairs and crawl back in bed with Fraser. (Except he couldn't, because Fraser had gotten up an hour earlier and was already at the Consulate. And Ray needed to get to work, anyway.) 

It got to where he didn't even want to _think_ about Chantal and her roommate living down the hall from Fraser. He thought about them, he wanted to put his fist through the wall. He wanted to put a ring on Fraser's finger, just so women wouldn't look at him the way—okay, the way women always did. 

He was heading to Fraser's one evening, carrying a box of CDs (Ray had made him buy a stereo, but Fraser still hadn't bought any CDs, which, maybe was a good thing, considering that Fraser probably liked Celine Dion) when he saw Chantal in the hallway. She was headed away from him, wearing a dress that looked like something even Frannie would consider too revealing (although Ray had to admit that Chantal carried it off just fine). She was just steps from her own apartment. She reached to put her key in the lock, and he froze, thinking, _no, no, don't turn around_. 

But it was too late; she must have heard his footsteps, because she turned and saw him. His spine stiffened, his stomach tightened, his chin went up. It was like he was going into the ring with some big guy, ready to go a couple of rounds. He was gonna go down fighting. 

"'Allo, Ray!" she called out cheerily. "Would you like to come in for a moment and meet Sophie?" 

A right hook to the jaw, he thought, and he jerked his head toward Fraser's door, held up the box like it had something that might melt or explode if he didn't get it to Fraser in time. Parry with the left: "Sorry, I'm kind of busy now. Maybe another time." And a jab with the right, as he rapped harder than he'd intended on the door, and then Fraser let him in—that was an uppercut. 

And then he closed the door behind him and dropped the box on the floor and whirled, backing Fraser up against the wall. 

"Ray, are you—" 

"Shut up," muttered Ray into Fraser's mouth, "shut up, shut up." One hand went to Fraser's shoulder and the other tangled in his hair. After a few moments Fraser's hands slid down to Ray's ass, pulled him close enough that Ray could feel Fraser hard in his jeans, hard for him. 

They staggered toward the bedroom, which would have been easier (and probably faster, but a lot less fun) if they hadn't been kissing at the time, and were just about to tumble into the bed— 

—when there was a knock at the door. 

"Don't answer that," said Ray, but this was Fraser, who was constitutionally incapable of ignoring things like knocks on the door, and he untangled himself from Ray and straightened out his clothing as he went to answer it. 

And of course it was Chantal, who looked like she was on the verge of tears. After a hurried conversation in French, Fraser looked apologetically at Ray (who had put himself back together and gone out into the living room) and said that this might take a while, and Ray figured he was screwed (or rather, he wasn't screwed, damn it) and he might as well head on home. 

Chantal gave him an apologetic look of her own as he walked by them into the hall, but it didn't matter. So much for going down fighting: that, right there, was the TKO. 

* * *

On Saturday night they'd gone out to dinner to celebrate closing the Gabaldon case, which justified steaks and wine instead of pizza and beer, as far as Ray was concerned. Fraser even had a glass of wine. Ray couldn't take his eyes off it, the way it glowed red in the light of the candle on their table, and when Fraser lifted it to his mouth—Jesus. He wanted to reach across the table and grab Fraser by the shoulders, lick that wine from his lips. It had been a week (not a week since they'd seen each other, which because of the Gabaldon case had been pretty much every day, but a week since they'd had any full-body naked contact, thanks to Chantal's untimely interruption) and that, as far as Ray was concerned, was six days too long to go without a vital necessity like Vitamin F(raser). 

He managed to wait until they were both in the car (which thank God was not under a streetlight, wasn't parked where anyone could see them) and then it was glorious, a kiss that tasted like red wine and Fraser. 

"Perhaps we should take this to another venue," said Fraser, and he wasn't fooling Ray with the fancy words; his voice was thick and his breathing was uneven and Ray could tell Fraser wanted it as much as he did. Reluctantly he untangled himself from Fraser (just hold your horses, he told himself; you're too old to be making out in cars, anyway) and started up the GTO. 

Fraser's place was closer, so that's where they went. Parked the car, got themselves to the building and into the front door without doing anything that could get them arrested for disorderly conduct, made it up the stairs (which, if anyone had seen the hot and dirty kissing they did on the landing, _would_ have gotten them arrested) and into the hallway in front of Fraser's apartment, and they were almost home free, almost into the privacy of the apartment (and Fraser's bedroom, and his bed) when Chantal's door opened and a familiar blonde head poked out, and Ray and Fraser leapt away from each other like they were both on fire. (Which they were, sort of.) 

"'Allo, Benton?" She always said his name with a funny emphasis at the end, "Ben- _ton_ ," the last n sounding like she was saying it through her nose with a bad head cold, but Fraser turned his head anyway. (Then again, Ray pronounced it "Fraser." He was so used to calling him that, anything else would have felt wrong.) 

"Tell her you're busy," grumbled Ray, but Fraser had already walked down the hall and stopped at her door. She had stepped into the hallway and had closed the door behind her, he supposed; all he could see was Fraser's back as he bent toward her, and the two of them were talking quietly in French, and fuck it, this was supposed to be _his_ date. He quick-stepped down the hall and tapped Fraser on the shoulder. "Maybe you could do the Canadian reunion thing another time, okay?" 

"Ray," said Fraser. His voice was full of reproach. "I'm not going to ignore a friend in need just because the timing is inconvenient." 

"A friend—" Ray started, and then Fraser stepped aside slightly so he could see Chantal…who was on crutches, a shiny, white cast on her right leg from ankle to knee. Her face was paler than usual, he realized, and she was wearing a t-shirt and baggy shorts instead of her usual sleek and fashionable clothes. (Not that it made her look any less attractive. Damn it.) 

"I fell, you see," said Chantal apologetically. "And my roommate has a business trip, and so I was hoping Ben- _ton_ would not mind getting me a few things at the store the next time he goes?" 

"Yeah, okay." Now he felt like a jerk, because, damsel in distress, friend in need, no wonder Fraser was giving him that wounded look. "I'll just head on home." 

"Don't go. I'll only be a moment more," said Fraser. 

So Ray slouched back toward Fraser's door, and Fraser and Chantal jabbered for a while longer in French, and then finally, finally, Chantal went back into her apartment and Fraser came back down the hall to let them both into his apartment. Dief greeted them enthusiastically (although maybe he was a little annoyed that he hadn't been invited to come along to dinner, even though Fraser had explained to him that dogs were not allowed in the restaurant—"and no, neither are wolves"). 

"I'm sorry about that, Ray," said Fraser, when he'd closed the door behind him. "But I'm sure you would do the same for any of your neighbors." 

" _My_ neighbors wouldn't ask me to do anything in the first place. None of 'em even know my name." 

"Well, you're not undercover any more. Perhaps you should introduce yourself to them." 

"None of 'em I really want to know. They're all cranky old men and crankier old ladies." 

"I'm sure when you get to know them they will turn out to be quite interesting," said Fraser primly. 

"Easy for you to say," said Ray. "You've got Miss Canada living down the hall. Me, I got Miss Bulgaria. From 1952." 

Maybe it was something in the way he said it, because Fraser tilted his head and frowned at him. "This isn't because—you're not _jealous_ , are you?" He sounded totally baffled, like he could not understand, for the life of him, how Ray could in any way at all _possibly_ be jealous. 

He threw up his hands. "Jesus, Fraser. She's hot, she's Canadian, she lives a convenient ten yards down the hall, and she is over here _all the fucking time_. What do you think?" 

"She's my _friend_ , Ray." 

"Right, she's your friend, of course she's your friend." He couldn't help it, he was pissed off, and Fraser sounding so reasonable just made him feel more pissed off. He remembered the way Chantal had smiled at him on the street, when she was running with—what was her name again? Oh, yeah, Sophie. And she was the brunette, like Victoria, she was the dangerous one. "What about Sophie?" "Sophie?" 

"Yeah. Sophie, is she just a friend, too?" 

Fraser blinked. "I suppose you could put it that way," he said slowly, and then Dief barked and nudged at his leg. "Yes, Diefenbaker, I realize you like her very much, but we're talking about—" He broke off and frowned at Ray. "I didn't realize you'd met Sophie." 

"I see her running with Chantal sometimes in the morning when I'm heading out." 

"Ah," said Fraser, but his puzzled expression did not change. "Then I'm not sure—" 

Dief made another noise, halfway between a bark and a whine, and Fraser looked down at him. "As if I would take your advice on relationships," he muttered. 

Relationships. Jesus. Ray's pissed-off-ness was starting to hit the red zone, the one that screamed _Danger! Danger!_ in his brain. He did _not_ want to hear this. If Fraser was having a relationship with Sophie, with somebody that was _not him_ , he did not want to hear about it. His hard-on had wilted, anyway, like the old lettuce at the back of the fridge. He started edging toward the door. "You know, Frase, I think I'm gonna head home after all." 

"I thought we were celebrating," said Fraser. He looked hurt. Good, thought Ray resolutely. 

"Yeah, well, I don't feel like celebrating any more." 

"If this is about Chantal, I assure you, Ray, you have nothing to worry about." 

"Look, Frase, I'm just not in the mood, okay?" (Which, he was in _a_ mood, all right, but not in _the_ mood. What he was in the mood for involved punching holes in walls.) "I'll see you next week sometime. Right now I just want to go home, get some sleep." 

He headed home but the sleep part didn't quite work out. "I suppose you could put it that way," Fraser had said, and what the hell was that supposed to mean? It wasn't until well past two a.m. that he fell asleep, and he dreamed about pretty girls and car crashes (and pretty girls crashing semi-trucks into the GTO, which, thank God that was only a dream), and woke up too early the next morning, sweaty and tired, tangled in his covers. 

* * *

He went to the gym Sunday afternoon, worked the heavy bag, tried to get his frustrations out. When he came back to his apartment the phone was ringing. He fought down the urge answer it; he wasn't ready to talk to Fraser yet, and if he did he'd probably just end up shouting at him and making everything worse. (And if it wasn't Fraser, Ray would probably just end up shouting at whoever it was, and whoever it was didn't deserve that.) 

They'd see each other sometime during the week, he figured, while they were working. By then, maybe this hammering in his chest (which happened every time he thought about Fraser, boom boom boom like a goddamn jackhammer) would have calmed down. 

By Monday he had his head on straight and was ready to see Fraser again, but things got kind of crazy at the station. What with the dueling litterbugs and the one-armed pickpocket and the sudden rash of death threats against Boy Scout leaders, Ray had his hands full (although not full of Fraser, unfortunately, who had his own run of craziness to deal with down at the Consulate. Even Constable Hsu, on the phone, sounded like she was ready to hightail it back to Vancouver, or wherever it was she was from). 

On Tuesday they managed to steal a couple of minutes on the phone, and made a date (which of course they did not call it on the phone, not in front of Constable Hsu and the 27th's bullpen) for that evening, but then the pile of paperwork in Ray's inbox turned into a freaking Mount Everest, and Welsh made some threatening noises about dire consequences if Ray didn't at least turn in the reports that were due last month. They postponed to Wednesday, and Fraser was going to come over to Ray's place, except when Ray got home it turned out his parents had stopped by (his mother was dropping off his clean laundry, and his father had come along for the ride, and you do not say no to your parents when they want to take you out to dinner). So Ray excused himself for a moment and ducked into the bathroom and made a quick, apologetic call to Fraser (because one of these days, if things kept going the way they had been—if things got back to the way they had been—they were going to have to say something to Ray's parents, but today was not going to be that day; and also, maybe he ought to ask his mom to return that copy of his apartment key) who told him that Thursday night they had an event at the Consulate, so maybe they should just play things by ear. 

But on Friday, miracle of miracles, Ray got his work finished early, and when he called Canada, Constable Hsu informed him that Constable Fraser had left for the day. So Ray drove over to Fraser's place, found a place to park, went upstairs and knocked on his apartment door. 

Which didn't open. 

He knocked again. And this time a door opened, but it wasn't the one he was knocking on. "'Allo, Ray! You are looking for Benton, yes?" She was cheery as usual, smiling despite the crutches and the cast, and Ray couldn't help but smile back. 

"Yeah," he said. "You know if he's home?" 

"He came home, yes, but now he has gone out with Sophie," she said, and maybe she kept talking but Ray didn't hear anything else she said, it was just French-accented noise that swirled around his head, in one ear and out the other, because damn it, he should have known, he should have realized it would be the brunette, like Victoria, like Janet Morse, damn it, and now he'd lost Fraser, and what the fuck was he going to do? 

He stumbled down the hall, down the stairs, back out onto the street, and somehow he found the GTO and got in. He leaned his head against the steering wheel, banged his forehead against it a couple of times. Fuck. What had he done wrong, how had he screwed up, how had he not seen it coming? 

He started up the car and put it in gear, and maybe it had autopilot or something, maybe it knew how to drive home all by itself, because suddenly he was at his own apartment building with no memory of actually driving there. All he'd been able to think about was Fraser. Fraser and Sophie. Sophie and Fraser. 

They'd never had the Talk, the one that he'd stammered through with Stella, the one about going steady and not seeing other people and this is it, you are the one for me. Because he was a guy, and guys did not talk about that relationship stuff until the woman folded her arms and said, "okay, we need to talk." Being as how neither Fraser nor he were women (leaving aside certain conversations in certain crypts, not to mention certain undercover cases that sometimes Ray really wished there'd been photos of in the files he'd been given to study) the talk about relationship stuff just never happened, and Ray had just figured that maybe it didn't need to happen at all. 

After all, Fraser had moved back to Chicago for him. Ray had thought that meant something. But maybe he was wrong. 

He let himself into his apartment and got a beer. He slid into Couch Position (on his back, feet up on one of the arms) and turned on the television, but it didn't matter what channel he clicked to, sitcom or news or a stupid commercial about some expensive stuff with a stupid name that would make your dishes shine like new: the picture in front of his eyes was always the same. Fraser and Sophie, walking along the street, dark heads bent together. Fraser and Sophie, across a small table in a fancy restaurant, clasped hands resting on the white tablecloth as they gazed into each other's eyes. Fraser and Sophie, naked, wrapped around each other on Fraser's bed, the queen-sized bed that Ray had made him buy, and— _fuck_. 

He slammed the bottle down so hard it foamed up and spilled, which just pissed him off even more. He tilted back his head and drank what was left in the bottle, then went to the kitchen and got a wet cloth to clean up the spill, and another beer, for good measure. Maybe he needed something stronger than beer. Maybe he needed to go out; it was Friday night, lots of bars, lots of women out there. Lots of men, too. Hell, maybe he should go back to Fraser's and see if Chantal was doing anything tonight. 

Instead, he slumped back onto the couch with his beer. Who was he kidding? He didn't want Chantal. He didn't want any woman, or any man, even, other than one man in particular. He wanted Fraser, and damn it, he was not going to let him go this easy. 

What had Fraser been _thinking_? What had Ray done wrong, that Fraser felt the need to go off with some woman? Maybe that was it; maybe it was the weight of all the half-truths and misleading statements they'd been making, to the Mounties at the Consulate, to the other cops at the 27 th, to Ray's parents. All that pretending they were just friends. Maybe Fraser just wanted a girlfriend he didn't have to pretend about. 

Or maybe it was the pretending that had gotten him in trouble. Nobody knew Fraser was taken (which, even if they hadn't had the Talk yet, he _was_ taken, and as soon as he got the chance, Ray was going to make damn sure that Fraser understood it), Sophie didn't know he was taken, and so she'd batted her eyelashes at Fraser and Fraser had been too polite to say no. Or maybe it was Chantal who'd fixed them up; hell, maybe she had been hoping for a double date, and if Ray hadn't run off when he did she'd have hauled him into her apartment. 

Okay. First thing to do was to get hold of Fraser. So he was on a date tonight, that wasn't the end of the world. (Even though it felt like it.) Tomorrow, he'd go over tomorrow (late enough in the morning that Sophie wouldn't still be there, if she'd—no, don't think about that, he told himself) and they'd have the Talk. 

Just thinking about the Talk made him feel hot and jittery. Why was it so hard to talk about relationship stuff? It was like the words got all jumbled together at the base of his throat, like they all ran into each other in a giant multi-word collision and none of them had airbags or seatbelts, they just smashed into one big word lump in his throat and couldn't make it out through his mouth. He took a deep breath. Maybe if he planned it out, it would go okay. 

He got up and opened another beer, thinking about what he'd say. "Fraser," he'd start out. "I know we haven't talked about our relationship—" Christ, he sounded like a girl. Maybe, "You know how you told me about your dad, how he always knew he was partners—" No, that sounded like he was saying that Fraser's dad might have been queer (which, having met Buck Frobisher, Ray did not want to even think about, let alone say). "Fraser, you and me, we're a duet," he tried, "and maybe we should think about—" 

There was a knock at the door. Saved by the goddamn knock, he thought, and went to answer it. He opened the door about six inches and then froze, staring through the gap. "Hello, Ray." 

Shit. "Fraser." 

They stood there for a moment (or maybe it was a million years, Ray wasn't quite sure) looking at each other. Finally Fraser said, gently, "May we come in?" 

We. Shit. Ray looked past Fraser's broad shoulders, out into the hall, but he didn't see any women. Then he felt a nudge at his leg; it was Dief, of course it was Dief, Dief and—Fraser had a strap of leather wrapped around his hand, a leash, and there was another dog at the end of it, another dog squeezing itself next to Dief to try to get into Ray's apartment. 

He opened the door the rest of the way, and the three of them came in. The other dog was a mutt of some kind, maybe part lab, tan with a white belly and muzzle, and it sniffed at Ray curiously as he closed the door behind them. "Didn't think I'd see you tonight," he said, running his fingers nervously through his hair. This was his chance to smoothly move into the Talk. He swallowed. "Chantal said you were on a date." 

"She said that?" Fraser frowned for a moment, then, incomprehensibly, smiled. "Ah, I see. Yes, she told me you stopped by. Let me guess: she told you I was out with Sophie?" 

"Yeah," said Ray, slouching unhappily against the back of the couch. 

"And you've met Sophie." 

"I told you. She was out running with Chantal." He took a deep breath. "Look, Frase, I get it, I get that you might want, you know, a regular relationship with a woman, that you can tell other people about, and I know she's cute and she's got dark hair, you like dark hair, right, but the thing is, Fraser, the thing is—" 

"You think it's dark?" asked Fraser. He'd dropped the leash and bent down to pet the dog who wasn't Dief, his hand smoothing the fur between its ears. He looked at the dog and cocked his head. "I'd say she's more of a golden color." Dief made a noise, and Fraser nodded. "Tawny, yes." He looked up at Ray. "Wouldn't you agree?" 

Ray looked at the dog. 

He looked at Fraser. 

He looked at the dog again. At, apparently, Sophie. "I'm being an idiot, right?" 

"I wouldn't say that. After all, she is cute." Fraser gave her another gentle rub on the head, then stood. "But not exactly my type." 

"Kind of the wrong species, huh." Dief barked at that and ostentatiously trotted off around the corner to the kitchen, Sophie following at his heels. Ray had to laugh. "A different one, anyway. So when Chantal said she had a roommate, this isn't exactly what I was thinking." 

"I suppose Sophie's a sort of roommate—yes, Diefenbaker, you're my roommate, no argument there. But I expect she was referring to Rolf." 

"Rolf?"

"Tall fellow, works for a bank. I believe they plan on getting married next spring. He's out of town at the moment, so I offered to walk Sophie." 

Ray closed his eyes for a moment. That was the problem with going with your hunches: sometimes, you were totally, spectacularly, stupidly _wrong_. (Although in this case, being totally wrong was something he totally did not mind, except for the embarrassment factor, which, at least Fraser wasn't the type to be obnoxious about it.) He opened his eyes again, nodded. "So, who's the brunette that Chantal goes running with?" 

"Her name's Ellen. She lives on the ground floor. But I have to tell you, Ray," he said, taking a step toward him, "Ellen may be a very attractive woman, but I don't want you asking her out." 

"Asking her out?" Ray repeated, stupidly. 

Fraser moved in even closer, leaning in, pressing Ray against the back of the couch. Deftly he plucked Ray's bottle of beer from his hand, sniffed at the opening, then placed it on the end table. His voice dropped to a low, urgent growl that made Ray's cock twitch. "We haven't talked about it, I know. But I consider our relationship exclusive, and I very much hope that you do as well." 

Fraser's hands rested on the back of the couch, one on each side of him, close to his hips, and Ray was pinned. Fraser bent to mouth the spot at the base of Ray's neck and Ray arched up into him, moaning, thrusting his hips against Fraser's body, wrapping his arms around Fraser, pulling him closer while Fraser murmured things about plans and priorities and understandings and relationships \- 

Holy shit. This was the Talk. Fraser was giving him the Talk. 

He must have gone still, because Fraser pulled away just a little, looked into his eyes and said, "Do we have an understanding, Ray?" And it was all completely clear, completely obvious, like it was written in big letters across his face: Fraser didn't want anybody else, either. He wanted Ray, only Ray. He wanted Ray enough that he was willing to Talk about their Relationship. That was real love, all right. 

Ray couldn't help it; he started grinning. "An understanding, yeah. Exclusive, just you and me, I got no problem with that." 

"That's good to hear." 

"In fact," said Ray, "I'm thinking we ought to make it legal." 

Fraser rubbed a thumb across his eyebrow. "I don't believe that's technically an option in Chicago." 

"Yeah, no, I don't mean legal, exactly. Legit. Like, telling my parents. And we could register as, you know, partners, get you on my health insurance." 

"I'm quite happy with the Canadian health-care system." 

"Oh," said Ray. And maybe the sudden rush of disappointment he felt, like someone had let all the air out of a balloon, showed on his face, because Fraser reached over and took his hand, looked at it thoughtfully. 

"Would you consider rings?" 

"Rings?" Ray squawked, and Jesus, could he sound any _more_ like an idiot? "No, yeah, that'd be okay. We could do rings." In fact, that sounded like a great idea: a shiny gold off-limits sign to mark Fraser as his, and vice versa. He exhaled, leaned back against the couch again. "We could do rings." 

"Then that's settled," said Fraser, sounding pleased. 

"Good," said Ray. Fraser was still holding his hand; he wrapped his fingers more firmly around Fraser's and gave his hand a tug, hooking one leg around one of Fraser's ankles at the same time, pulling him close. "Because I kind of liked what you were doing with your mouth a little while ago. You think maybe we could get back to it?" 

"Ah," said Fraser. He bent to Ray's neck, his lips tracing a hot path up toward his ear. "You mean this?" 

"Yeah, that's—that's good, that's, yeah." 

Fraser's hand stole between them and found his belt buckle, and obviously putting on and taking off The Uniform had trained him well, because Fraser's hand just sort of slid down his crotch and whammo, his belt was undone and his fly was open. "What about this?" 

"Good, yeah," panted Ray. 

Fraser's mouth was on his, devouring, and his hand was on Ray's dick, and Ray totally did not have a problem with that except that _his_ hand was not on _Fraser's_ dick. (Which, every time he thought about remedying, Fraser would nibble at his bottom lip or give a little squeeze with his fingertips, and Ray would go weak at the knees and forget exactly what it was he had planned to do.) 

Then Fraser pulled away from his mouth and his dick, gave him a wicked, wicked smile, and slid down Ray's body. "What about," he said, his breath gusting in exactly the right place (which reacted with a twitch that nearly jabbed Fraser in the nose), "this?" His tongue flickered out and— 

"Nnngh," said Ray. 

Fortunately Fraser spoke Ray just as well as he spoke French, because he correctly interpreted the noise Ray had made (which was intended to mean, roughly, _yes yes yes hell yes now please yes_ ) and his tongue kept going, slithering up and slickering down until finally he sucked Ray down into his mouth, deep and dirty, and it felt _amazing_. It looked amazing, too: Fraser's dark head bobbing on his dick, his lips sliding and sucking, his eyes so blue and wide. Fraser gave head like it was the most important thing in the world, like it was the best and most fun thing he could imagine doing (which, from Ray's perspective, no argument there) and that he would be the happiest man in the universe if he'd just be allowed to keep doing it. Which again, no argument from Ray. 

Fraser's hands tugged at Ray's pants, pulling them farther down, and Ray moved his legs apart to give Fraser more room to explore. Fraser's fingers mapped out the curve of Ray's inner thigh and his tongue investigated the base of his cock; then one set of explorers met the other and there was a _wet_ finger up Ray's ass and a _hot_ mouth on his cock and Ray said "Nnngh" some more, louder and more urgently (which in this case meant, roughly, _holy fuck I'm going to come now, okay?_ ) and maybe he thrashed around a little, too, but sure enough, Fraser was right on top of the Ray-translation, and he just sucked harder and thrust another finger into Ray, and Ray shook and thrashed some more and came and came into Fraser's mouth. 

Fraser gave him zero time to recover. As soon as he'd swallowed everything Ray had to give he was all over Ray, scrabbling his pants the rest of the way down, pulling off his shoes so he could take Ray's pants off (which, okay, maybe he should have done first, but Ray knew first-hand how lust messed up your priorities), turning him against the back of the sofa and murmuring, "Please, Ray, please" into his ear. Which would have melted him into a puddle on the spot, if the blowjob hadn't already melted him. 

This was First-Degree Murmur With Intent, no question. Which Ray was totally fine with, or would have been, except that his living room was missing a few items of proper preparation, and poor performance was not an option at this or any other juncture. Regretfully he twisted back around to face Fraser (who was frantically undoing his own clothing) and said, "Lemme get the stuff from the bedroom, okay?" 

Fraser just gave him a desperate look, so Ray ran to the bedroom and yanked open the nightstand drawer. He had the bottle of lube in one hand and was feeling around for the condoms with the other when Fraser came up behind him, snaking his arms around to pull off Ray's shirt (which got caught around his bottle-holding hand, of course), and then Fraser's naked chest was rubbing against Ray's naked back and it was all Ray could do not to collapse onto the bed. 

"Okay, okay," he gasped. His fingers, flailing in the drawer, finally found the strip of condoms, and he thrust them in Fraser's direction. This distracted Fraser enough that he released Ray, who took the opportunity to disentangle himself from his shirt and drop it to the floor. When Fraser turned back to him, condom at the ready and a serious gleam in his eye, Ray pushed the lube into his hands. 

In three seconds flat he was crosswise on the bed, his ass draped over the edge with Fraser's slick fingers working him open. Fraser bent over him, keeping up a constant stream of urgent, half-coherent words: requests ("Please, please, I want you so much") and apologies ("If I'd known, God, Ray, I didn't know you'd think that") and assurances ("Only you, Ray, I swear, only you") and finally, as he thrust his cock deep into Ray, deep and heartfelt groans. 

Ray tried to respond, to say encouraging things ("C'mon, give it to me, yeah") but it all came out as groans, too; Fraser was fucking him with abandon, no sign of his usual control, and it was all Ray could do to hang on to the bed and try to meet his wild thrusts. He hadn't even had time to get hard again but it felt almost like he'd come twice, maybe three times, convulsing under Fraser, the tension and release shooting through his body. 

Finally Fraser grabbed his hips hard and made a loud, incoherent, but definitely happy noise right into Ray's ear, and then slumped down onto Ray's back like a sack of bananas. 

"Hey," said Ray softly. Fraser didn't move, so he repeated it, a little louder, and wiggled against Fraser for good measure. 

"Mmmph," said Fraser. He disentangled himself from Ray and flopped back down onto the bed next to him, snuggling up into his side. Then he sat straight up, looking suddenly alarmed. "I didn't—you're all right, Ray? I didn't hurt you?" 

"Are you nuts? That was fine. More than fine. Although Dief might have thought you were calling caribou." 

Fraser's face turned an alarming shade of red. "Good Lord—the dogs—" He leapt to his feet and stripped off and disposed of the condom, then looked around for his clothes, having apparently forgotten he'd left most of them in the living room. "Oh, dear." 

"It's not like he doesn't know what we get up to in the bedroom," Ray pointed out. Then he started laughing. "I never thought I'd worry about coming out to a dog." 

"You know he prefers to be called a wolf," said Fraser reprovingly; then the absurdity of the situation hit him and he started laughing as well, great peals of laughter that were the best noise Ray had ever heard. "I expect he's well used to it by now, Ray. But now I do need to get Sophie back, or Chantal will think I've kidnapped her." 

"Yeah, okay," said Ray, but it made him stop laughing, because it was Friday night, and he really wanted to wake up next to Fraser on Saturday morning. (And then maybe go shopping for rings.) 

"So why don't you come back to my apartment?" 

That sounded good, except for one thing. "Do we have to walk?" 

"It's a lovely evening." 

"It's thirty blocks." 

Fraser, who had headed for the bathroom, turned around at the door, gave Ray a lascivious smile (and Jesus, Ray might have just come his brains out but that smile still worked serious mojo on his dick) and said, "I'll make it worth your while," then disappeared into the bathroom. 

"Well, if you put it that way," Ray told the door. He stretched and stood up, then started putting himself back together. 

When Fraser was finished in the bathroom, Ray went in; by the time he'd washed up and put his clothes on and went out into the living room, Fraser was fully dressed and sitting on the couch with Sophie's head in his lap, stroking her fur. Dief sat in front of the door, looking as impatient as a dog (wolf, whatever) could look. 

"Did I not hear you say you were just friends?" Ray said, in a mock-serious voice. "That does not look like friends." He bent down to look Sophie in the eye. "Hey, you, keep your paws off. Get your own man." 

Sophie gave a short woof that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, then uncoiled from her spot and trotted over to the door to push her muzzle into Dief's fur. 

"It appears as though she's taken your words to heart," said Fraser. 

"Good," Ray said. "'Cause I'm kind of the jealous type."

**Author's Note:**

> Bluebrocade had asked for "something wacky like the show often was, or an outing fic, or something with jealousy, or maybe a story of how a cat brought Fraser and Ray together after first driving them apart." And then in her Dear Santa letter she mentioned that "My most favorite things ever in slash fic are 1) misunderstandings/lack of communication that lead to heartbreak then joy," and I immediately thought, comedy of errors. Around a cat, who I decided to name Sophie after my brother-in-law's cat. Except that as the plot gelled in my head, I quickly realized Sophie had to become a dog. :-) Sorry, Blue! She was supposed to be a cat!
> 
> The thing about misunderstandings stories is that they pretty much have to be light humor; if you make them angsty, the reader will shake her head and think, "geez, this all could have been cleared up if they'd just said something." So this is a bubbly, frothy confection, and I figured I'd have it all done in 4500 words or so. I'm pretty good at predicting story length in general, but not here. I sent 6700 words to my beta-readers, j_s_cavalcante and malnpudl, and the final version is 8500 words.
> 
> What I sent to my betas was markedly different from the final version, in that 1) each scene ended in a fade-to-black sex scene, and 2) there was no sex at the end. malnpudl wrote back and said, "Hmm, Blue really likes smut in her stories," which got me all depressed, because I do write for the recipient, but I thought that sex would have been gratuitous here. Then j_s_cavalcante pointed out that the whole story lacked tension: there was no real question that Fraser still wanted Ray, since each scene ended with them together. And she was right. The story structure was a straight line, or maybe a series of small hills, each the same height, when what makes an effective story is a build to a climax, or a rising sawtooth of tension.
> 
> So I took out the implied sex at the end of each scene after the first, so that Ray gets increasingly frustrated, and that frustration and tension is what makes the sex scene at the end an actual resolution, rather than utterly gratuitous. Um, I guess it's still a little gratuitous :-) But I thought, hey, she likes smut, I'll give her smut - and since all of my most recent stories were smutless, it was actually a lot of fun to just pull out all the stops and write something really, really hot. (Well, I thought it was.)
> 
> Finally, from a stylistic standpoint: I'm not a big fan of parentheticals, but the first couple just kind of happened, and then it became a conscious choice, to squeeze as many parenthetical statements in as I possibly could. Before I came up with a title, I mentally referred to this story as "The One With All The Parentheses." I still kind of think of that as its subtitle!


End file.
